Here
by Imaginari-Mari
Summary: "I look at him. He has wrapped his arms around himself, holding so tightly it's as if he is afraid he will burst apart. His eyes are still closed, and the tears haven't stopped." Everlark. AU. Both Peeta and Katniss are rescued from the Quell. Katniss is concerned when Peeta doesn't turn up after being told that his family died in the bombing of Twelve.


I slip into Peeta's room, shutting the door gently behind me. He's sitting on the bed, his back to the headboard and his knees drawn up. He rests his forehead on his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs, the left hand grabbing the right tightly.

The other bed is empty; I suspect that it's meant for Finnick, if he is ever released from District Thirteen's hospital. Peeta and I had been released yesterday, after the wounds from where our trackers had been cut out had healed. I still had to go back to the head doctor every day; Johanna's wallop had left my thoughts muddled when I got anxious or stressed, the words getting trapped in my brain like my legs in the weeds by the lake in Twelve. But at least I was out of the hospital, in a room with my mother and Prim.

But Peeta had no one. His parents and brothers had perished when Snow bombed our District. They had told him in the hospital the morning we were released yesterday; I heard them whispering to him as he lay in the next bed over from me. He had been quiet after that, his eyes empty and staring at nothing.

When we were released, I was sent to my family's room and he was led away. I looked for him afterward, but he didn't show up for dinner last night, and he wasn't at breakfast this morning. I had a meeting with Plutarch in the Command Center in a few hours, according to the schedule on my arm and I was sure Peeta was supposed to be there too.

But after breakfast, he didn't try to find me. I wanted to talk to him, to figure out exactly what we were supposed to be doing now, as the symbols of this fledgeling rebellion. I waited outside of the cafeteria for a few minutes, lingering as unobtrusively as I could, until the stares of the citizens assigned to clean that day chased me away, down into the floors where we all lived and worked. I ran into Haymitch near the schoolroom. He had been trying to find some sort of liquor, anything to take the edge off of the withdrawal. But all alcohol was kept under lock and key in this District - he had been cut off, cold turkey.

"Have you seen Peeta?" I had asked, not bothering with a greeting.

"Not since I left him in his room yesterday," he replied. "Why?"

"I haven't seen him either. I'm worried."

"Well, he's supposed to meet with you and Plutarch soon." He pulled back his sleeve and glanced at the schedule printed on his forearm. "It's in a few hours, I'm sure he's fine. He'll turn up then."

I looked at him dubiously. Peeta hadn't shown up for two meals - if he wasn't eating, he likely wasn't up for meeting with anyone. And trust Haymitch not to check up on Peeta after telling him his entire family was dead.

"What room is he in?"

"1205," he grunted.

I turned around, muttering a 'thank you' as I jogged back to the elevators. I had to find him.

I pressed the elevator button to go down and jumped in the moment the doors open. I had to know that he was okay, just tired or resting. I couldn't bear the thought of him alone here, feeling abandoned and empty and lost.

The elevator doors opened on the twelfth floor and I burst out of them, turning right towards the lower numbered rooms. At the end of the hall I reached room 1205 and knocked quietly on the door, my breathing rapid and palms sweaty, anxiety rolling around in my stomach.

I had knocked again, then opened to door, determined to see him whether he wanted me to or not - and that's when I found him on his bed.

"Peeta?" I whisper. He doesn't move. Nothing in his body language indicates that he has heard me.

I pad over to his bed. His eyes are closed, and his expression is full of sorrow. His cheeks are streaked with tear tracks, some dry and others fresh. I sit down on the bed next to him, reach out a hand and touch his knee.

"Peeta?"

His entire body is stiff and he's cold. I can feel how icy his skin is underneath the fabric of our District-issued trousers. It's as if he hasn't moved for hours, perhaps all night. He shakes his head slightly and looks up.

His eyes are red-rimmed, the skin around them swollen and puffy. There are grooves in his bottom lip, impressions from his teeth where he's been biting his lip. He looks miserable, broken.

When he said there there was no one but me he cared about in the arena, I knew he was just trying to convince me to live, to survive - that he cared about his family, too, just that the loss of me would cut deeper. I know how deeply he cares for me, how I'm just now able to see how much I could love him too. But they were his family, his father and brothers, and just because he said that nobody needed him doesn't mean he wouldn't miss them if they were gone, wouldn't mourn them if they died. If I had died and he lived, he would still have them when he returned to Twelve. His loss would not have affected them. But their loss affects him.

"Oh, Peeta." I take my hand off his knee, reaching out to cup his cheek with my hand.

I stroke his cheek with my thumb. Weeks, days, even hours ago I would have hesitated, the gesture intimate, too intimate for cameras and the Capitol. But we are alone in his room, with no one to overhear, to judge or report back, and I know how he feels. I know how it feels to lose family, like your foundation has been shaken. Gale was my source of comfort when my father died, the company of someone who was going through the same heartache helping to soothe my own loss. Peeta needs that now, needs me now.

I feel him lean into my hand slightly, and his eyes close again. A soft sigh leaves his mouth. A tear leaks out of one eye and he grimaces, fighting the pain, trying to tamp it down.

He can't fight this. I fought it for so long, became numb in the process, survival my top priority. But he doesn't need to fight it; he needs to grieve and let it out so it doesn't consume him, doesn't harden him like it did Gale and me. If he fights it, he will lose, and then he'll no longer be the boy with the bread, no longer be the man I've come to care for so much, no longer be Peeta.

I climb down off of the bed and move towards the headboard.

"Can you move towards the end of the bed, Peeta?" I ask softly.

He doesn't respond, but he moves slightly. I grab the pillow he was resting on and prop it up against the headboard to create a cushion. Then I take the pillow from Finnick's bed and do the same thing.

"Stand up for a second," I say, and he complies, still not saying a word.

The bed is still neatly made, and I yank the blanket out from where it is tucked under the mattress. I push it over to the side of the bed adjacent to the wall and then clamber back onto the bed, resting against the pillows in a reclined position.

I look at him. He has wrapped his arms around himself, holding so tightly it's as if he is afraid he will burst apart. His eyes are still closed, and the tears haven't stopped. His shirt - the light gray button-up issued to every male citizen of Thirteen - is rumpled and untucked, the collar dark and dampened.

He looks broken. I feel my heart lurch, tipping over an edge I've been trying not to fall over.

Peeta and I have protected each other, saved each other over and over again. Since the first Games, he has been a pillar of strength, remaining stoic and steady when I could have gone to pieces. When I was confused about how I felt, when we were returning home to Twelve after our victory, he stayed strong despite how much I hurt him, played along with my game despite his own feelings. He sheltered me from nightmares on the train while suffering through his own. He wanted me to live through the Quell, tried everything he could to convince me that I should survive, for Prim, for my mother, for Gale.

But Gale has been distant since we were rescued. He didn't come to the hospital; Haymitch told us that Twelve had been bombed. He was quiet at dinner, had been looking around at the other tables at breakfast. It bothers him that Peeta is here; after the first games, the divide between the Seam and the Merchants meant that Gale never had to see Peeta, look at him, be reminded of my divided feelings. But now we are all here together, and he knows he will be seeing Peeta not only at meals, but everywhere. This realization makes me angry - how could he resent Peeta, resent his presence, when the alternative is for him to be tortured in the Capitol or dead? How can he resent him when he knows Peeta's family is dead, suffering in a way Gale knows only too well?

It's in that moment that I get it. Gale has been my friend since childhood. Gale understood me, helped me, protected me, as I did for him. But when I was reaped, I changed. I was no longer Catnip, the girl just trying to keep her family alive, just trying to survive the day. There is more than the woods, a world darker and scarier than either of us could have ever imagined, a world that lives on in my nightmares night after night as the faces of those I've killed come back and haunt me. Gale can never understand this. Gale was waiting for Catnip to come home, for things to go back to the way they were, to take up where we left off. But Gale wasn't in the arena, Gale wasn't fighting for survival against Snow, Gale hasn't had an entire country breathing down his neck.

Peeta has. Peeta has dealt with all of it, with losing his leg and killing other children, with being forced to live in the spotlight of a nation-wide love affair with a girl who wasn't sure how she felt about anyone, with protecting me, with trying so desperately to keep a hold onto himself, with trying not to become a piece in their games. Peeta understands how the darkness can be so inviting and yet so terrifying, how there are days when the blankets and softness of the mattress are both the biggest comfort and the greatest enemy. I don't blame Gale for not understanding it, for no longer understanding me.

I just need to be with the person who does. I need to be with the person whose arms make me feel safer, safer than I have ever felt since my father died, who has given me strength and courage when I've needed it, even when I refused to admit it. Peeta is sapped of that strength now, his reserves depleted. He cannot shoulder this alone. I need to be his pillar of strength now, pull him back together and help him heal, be with him however he needs me, protect him and save him because that's what we do for each other.

Peeta is mine, I am his. Anything else is unthinkable.

I hold my hand out to him. "Come here."

His eyes open and meet mine and he takes my hand, allowing me to pull him onto the bed. I wrap my arm around his shoulder and gently tug him down to rest his head on my shoulder, reclining together on the pillows. I use my free hand to grab the blanket and lay it over us, creating a cocoon of warmth.

His tense shoulders relax slightly and he turns into me. I place a hand on his back, the movement awkward, but I'm determined to overcome any awkwardness I feel, beat back any trepidation. I'm not here for me, I'm not acting for the cameras, I am just here for Peeta.

I hear him sigh and I gently rub his back, slowly and stiffly at first. The only person I've ever held like this is Prim; I've never been affectionate or comforting. But soon the movements become natural, my fingers and palm soothing the muscles in his back. His arms are still wrapped around his body and when I look down at his face his eyes have closed again. The tears have stopped for now, but his shoulders are tense again and he's trembling.

He whimpers, and the sound nearly cleaves my heart in two. I do the only thing I can think of and pull him closer, taking one of his arms and wrapping it around my waist as I hug him tightly, my hand still stroking his back.

"I'm here," I soothe, pressing my cheek against the top of his head. "I'm here."

I feel him nod and his grip tightens around my waist, using me as a lifeline.

"I know it hurts - trust me, I know how much this hurts. I'm not going to tell you it's okay now, because it doesn't feel that way. But you will feel better. Not tomorrow, not next week - it doesn't seem like you ever will, but you will."

The words are pouring out of me; I am desperate to try and heal him, rambling because I am need to take away some of this. It's not often that I speak so much.

"It's my fault," he chokes out, his voice raspy and low.

I look down at him. His eyes are open now, and he's staring at the wall.

"How is it your fault?"

"I should have tried to protect them more! I should have done something, anything - I don't know what, but not knowing anything about the turmoil in the Districts or that Snow was threatening their lives killed them."

He sounds frantic. He takes his hand off of my waist and grabs at his hair, pulling on it.

"I was so stupid, Katniss. I could have helped them, could have warned them, could have-"

"Peeta! No one knew this was going to happen," I interrupt.

I stop rubbing his back and grab his hand, unwinding his fingers from his hair and pulling it back down to my waist. I raise my hand to his jaw and cup his chin, tugging gingerly upward so that he's looking at me.

"You didn't do this, Peeta. You didn't know it would happen, and warning them before the Quell wasn't going to protect them. No one knew what to do."

He shakes his head, his eyes locked on mine. "I could have told them to watch the Quell somewhere closer to the woods. No one - no one from the Square made it out of Twelve. If they had been closer to the Seam they would have had a chance."

"You didn't know," I repeat. "Even the Rebellion didn't know, and they planned this whole thing out. I'm so sorry, Peeta."

His eyes fill with tears again, but he doesn't close them; he's still looking at me, his irises stormy blue, searching for an anchor.

"They are - were my family. They didn't like me very much, and there were a lot of times when I - I didn't like them," he chokes out, the tears slipping down his cheeks. "But they were what I had, they raised me, they -"

He breaks down again, and buries his head into my shoulder. The fight seems to drain out of him, the tension leaving his body. I stroke his hair and press a kiss to the top of his head, unsure of how else to comfort him. I'm not very good with words, and while I know I need to be here for him, I don't know what else to do. Realizing that I love him isn't enough and it won't magically make everything better.

I feel his tears soak the shoulder of my shirt. I move my hand down from his hair to his back again, rubbing in a circle.

The motion is so familiar that it dredges up a memory I had long forgotten. My father sitting on a rock by the lake in the woods, my head on his chest as I sat in his lap. I was sobbing my eyes out. I was inconsolable after shooting a rabbit - my first kill - and my father was rubbing my back in slow circles and humming. The song calmed me.

I do the same now, hoping it can do the same for Peeta. I hum 'The Meadow Song,' and his breathing slows and the sobs quiet, though they don't go away.

After a few minutes, I feel his head stir.

"Will you sing?" he asks, his voice wobbly.

My heart lurches again; I have never seen him this vulnerable, have never seen his face so lost and scared. I would do anything for him, this boy I've come to love, anything to let him know that he isn't alone, that he has me in a way that I've been too scared and confused to give him before. I nod.

"Of course."

It takes a moment to gather myself. It has been so long since I've sung anything. But soon my voice gains strength as I sing softly to him, my mouth near his ear as the notes leave my lips just for him, only for him.

"Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes

And when you awake, the sun will rise

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you."

My voice rings on the last words, willing them to reach him, to say what I have been unwilling to acknowledge, unable to say for so long.

He's quiet now, sobs no longer racking his body, his breathing even. I kiss his forehead and watch him, his eyes closed. I stroke his hair while he seems to doze off.

My lips are tingling where they touched his skin. I've never reacted so strongly to simply touching him before - or maybe I was just so scared, so nervous and so caught up inside of my own head that I never noticed.

I start when I feel his hand move from my waist to my back. He pulls me close to him, hugging me tight against his body. We are both laying on our sides now, and I feel his other arm snake underneath me to hold me.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For what?"

"For being here. For coming to find me. I - I can't tell you how much I needed this, needed you here."

I pull back so that I can look at him.

"I know. That's why I came. I didn't want you to be alone."

He presses his forehead against mine. I feel my heartbeat quicken, and an involuntary smile pull at my lips.

"Your voice is just as beautiful as it was the day I first saw you. I - I needed that too. I needed to be reminded that beauty and good still exist."

He sighs. "I know it's there, it's just so hard to see right now. I think I'm going to need to be reminded of that a lot."

"I'll be here with you. Any time you want me to sing, you got it. Unless it's in front of other people," I chuckle. "I'm only singing for you."

"Oh?" he asks, pulling his head back slightly. "Why is that?"

I cast around for the right words. I sang for Prim on the morning of the Reaping. I sang for Rue in the clearing. I had done it to comfort and soothe them. I had done it because I cared for them.

But when given the chance to share my talent when Peeta and I had to choose something to showcase to the people of Panem, I balked. My singing was intimate, meant for the person in front of me, not for audience made up of people in the Capitol who couldn't understand the songs.

My singing was meant for the people closest to me, the people I carried in my heart. It was mean for my father, for Prim, for Rue - and now, for Peeta.

He said he needed to be reminded that beauty and good still exist.

I steel myself, knowing that this is likely the wrong place, the wrong time, months too late. But I can't hide from this anymore, I can't pretend it doesn't exist. I can't leave him unsure of me, of us, whether what we have is real or not. He has lost his family, lost his home, lost everything that was constant for him.

But he will have me. He will always have me.

I take a deep breath and meet his eyes.

"I only sing for people I love."

He blinks. Then his face shifts, the downturn corners of his mouth raising in a smile, the first I've seen on his face since we were rescued. The worry lines leave his forehead and his eyes have no hint of tears for the first time.

"You what?"

I feel heat rising in my cheeks, but I ignore the part of my brain screaming at me to backtrack, to play dumb. I am not going to close off again. I refuse to deny this anymore, refuse to deny Peeta what he deserves anymore.

He deserves a straight answer.

"Only - only sing for people that I love. Because I…" I trail off, swallowing, gathering the courage because I am never this open, preferring to let my actions speak louder than my words. "I love you."

I have barely taken my next breath when his forehead press against mine again.

"I needed to hear that, too. They're gone and it's awful and it hurts so damn much but I'm not alone. I'm not alone because you're here, you're with me and - and you love me."

His eyes are closed again and he is speaking so fast that I can barely discern the individual words. I know that I haven't fixed him, haven't healed him. I know that nothing could make this better for him. I know I can't fill the void. But he has me to lean on.

"I do."

His eyes flutter open and he smiles at me again. Warmth spreads down my face and into my core. He leans in.

"I love you, too."

Then his lips meet mine. I kiss him back, my mouth parting as he deepens the kiss. He pressed one hand to the back of my head and we meld together. This kiss surpasses the one on the beach, because it is the first one where we are both being honest about how we feel. It is the first one where we both know how we feel about each other.

He pulls away and buries his head again in the space between my neck and my shoulder. I feel tears dampen my shirt and I rub his back, the change in his mood so sudden that I can do little else.

"I'm sorry," he whispers after a few moments, his voice muffled. "It just hits me all of a sudden - I feel like I'm okay, that I can start to get through this and feel better, but then it just comes out of nowhere."

"You only found out yesterday. You don't have to be okay right now. Just feel it."

He nods, and I turn my head to kiss the side of his forehead.

"And I will be here. No matter what."

He pulls back, fresh tears in his eyes, and bring a hand up to my face, his thumb caressing my cheek.

"You'll stay with me?"

I smile at him, and lightly bump his forehead with my own.

"Always."


End file.
